Close Quarters: A Novel (Zane Presents)
Read Close Quarters: A Novel (Zane Presents) Online
Authors: Shamara Ray
Dear Reader:
Close Quarters
by Shamara Ray is a delightful, thought-provoking romance novel about how the laundry list of desired traits in a mate can fall short to the list of what is truly needed to make one happy. When a man and a woman become roommates out of financial desperation, needing to split bills, they have no idea that they are about to embark on a journey together. Melina is engaged to Ellison, a seemingly perfect man, but sometimes perfection is overkill and a man with flaws provides more excitement. Such is the case with her roommate, Malik, who embodies every trait that has always repulsed her in a man. Funny how life throws you curveballs.
I am sure that many of you have found love in the most unusual places and when you least expected it. Ray does a wonderful job of making readers question their own decisions, or giving them newfound confidence that they made the right choice the first time around. I hope that you enjoy
Close Quarters
. As always, we appreciate your support of all of the Strebor Books authors and we strive to bring you powerful, cutting-edge literature from the most vibrant voices on the current literary scene.
You can follow me online at
www.facebook.com/AuthorZane
or on Twitter
@planetzane
.
Blessings,
Zane
Publisher
Strebor Books International
www.simonandschuster.com/streborbooks
For Shinda
MELINA
T
he sound of scurrying feet and giggling trailed off down the hallway as I entered my darkened apartment. I braced myself and marched toward the source that suddenly illuminated the hall. Malik was bent over in front of the refrigerator, clad only in his boxers, shoving something onto the shelf. The picture became clear when he turned around and slyly grinned at me. Traces of whipped cream were all over his face and hands, some on the floor. I shook my head and stormed to my room, slamming my door behind me.
My flight from Atlanta was full of turbulence and the cab ride home from the airport wasn’t much better. I was supposed to arrive at LaGuardia at eight p.m., but all planes departing from Hartsfield-Jackson were delayed. We didn’t touch down in New York until midnight. After waiting another twenty minutes for my luggage, I finally got in a cab headed for Brooklyn. As the driver hit every pothole on Atlantic Avenue, I concentrated on the soothing bath I planned to take once I reached home.
Malik’s flavor of the week raucously laughed, pleading with him to stop doing whatever was causing her such pleasure. Our two-bedroom apartment was too small for their folly. I could hear everything. The bathroom separated our rooms, but sound traveled easily through our paper-thin walls. We lived on the second
floor of a renovated brownstone in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn. I had called this apartment home for three years. For two of those years I used the other bedroom as a home office, but the steady increases in rent caused a sister to reevaluate her living situation.
If I knew a year ago what I know now, I would have never placed an ad for a roommate. The string of characters that replied to my listing was frightening. I hoped to share my space with another woman, young and progressive like myself, but when Malik showed up at the door, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had met with too many unsavory, unemployed, uninspired losers trying to haggle with me on the amount for the monthly rent. Malik came with his resume, a three-month deposit, a great smile, a firm handshake and made a convincing case for why I needed to consider a male roommate. A week later, he moved in. A month later, the honeymoon ended.
Music started pouring out of Malik’s room, the bass vibrating the walls. I understood it was Friday night—the start of the weekend—but this was intolerable. I snatched my Coach weekend tote from the closet and tossed in a couple of outfits. I changed into my velour sweatsuit, grabbed my bag and headed into the crisp, autumn night. I saw the ticket on my windshield before I even made it to my car. Damn alternate-side-of-the-street parking. I asked Malik to move my car for me while I was out of town at my conference, but apparently he couldn’t even do that.
I hopped in my BMW 335i Coupe and put on Jill Scott. Her voice relaxed me as I raced down Fulton Street toward the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Traffic was light to Manhasset. I cruised off the exit and navigated the familiar winding roads, the moon casting barely enough light through the trees. I turned
onto a private road, slowing down as the gravel popped underneath my tires. Dimming my high beams, I approached the secluded home at the end of the road, pulled into the circular, cobblestone driveway and parked behind the Hummer. I stood on the doorstep, riffling through my bag for keys. I rested the bag on the top step and knelt down, digging my hand beneath the clothing.
The wind kicked up, sending leaves scraping across the ground. I looked over my shoulder at the dark thicket of trees, into the shadows. I lifted the tote and shook it from side to side. I was dreading the possibility of ringing the doorbell when I heard a faint jingle emanating from a side compartment.
I hadn’t bothered to call Ellis on my way over because I knew he was already asleep. He didn’t believe in staying up late, not even on weekends. According to Ellis, as long as there was work to do and money to be made, it paid to rise before the sun. He’d be up and running a couple of hours after my head hit the pillow. I was not a morning person and usually didn’t get up until after noon on Saturdays.
I passed through the marble foyer and ascended the spiral staircase. The double doors at the end of the hall were slightly ajar. I slipped into the room and padded across the floor to the bed. Ellis was on his side, sound asleep. I kicked off my sneakers, climbed on the bed and snuggled up next to him. He rolled over and clicked on the lamp.
Ellis sat up, frowning at me. “Melina, you’re on my bed with your clothes on?”
I turned away from him and retreated to the bathroom to undress. “Good to see you, too,” I mumbled.
Voices in the hallway stirred me from my sleep. The clock on the nightstand said it was two in the afternoon. Ellis entered the bedroom, his mother filing in after him. I sprang up and quickly put on my robe.
“Mother Harlow, I didn’t know you were here,” I said.
“You wouldn’t, dear, since you’ve been in here snoozing the day away. Just like Sleeping Beauty,” she said wryly.
I finger combed my hair, which I was certain was all over my head, and cut my eyes at Ellis. Why his mother was standing in the middle of his bedroom—at that very moment—made absolutely no sense to me.
“Mother is staying the weekend. She arrived yesterday evening. We just came back from North Shore Hospital. The dedication of the pediatric wing in honor of my father was today.”
His mother pulled a handkerchief from her purse, right on cue. “God rest his soul,” she said, dabbing her dry eyes.
I went over to her and patted her back. “I miss him, too, Mother Harlow.”
She whipped her head around and glared at me. “You could never know the pain I feel. I spent forty years of my life with that man.” She straightened her posture and smiled stiffly. “And I told you, call me Bebe.”
She pivoted on her Manolos and left the room, her expensive perfume lingering in her aftermath.
I sat on the edge of the bed and shook my head. “Ellis, why didn’t you tell me the ceremony was today?”
“I thought I mentioned it to you.”
His nonchalant behavior told me otherwise. I would have remembered something as important as a dedication ceremony for his father. Ellison Harlow II was a beautiful man. One of the most respected pediatric surgeons in the country. Three months
ago, he died of a heart attack. It was so unexpected—he was the picture of perfect health.
“You
thought
? Never once did you mention today was the dedication,” I said.
“Are you sure, Melina?”
I had a sinking feeling in my gut. “You also didn’t say anything about your mother being here. You could have at least told me this morning.”